


the art of sleep

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Eames is smug per usual, M/M, boys cuddling, even on pain of death, except Arthur would never admit he's a cuddler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team walks in on Arthur and Eames sleeping together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the art of sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Written a long, long time ago for a prompt at inception-kink, but just got around to archiving it here.

Arthur doesn’t remember the last time he slept. In fact, he’s almost sure he hasn’t since they set out on this suicidal mission that both Cobb and Eames say is possible. Seeing as Cobb has nothing to lose and Eames is a notorious gambler, Arthur can’t say he’s reassured. He’s going along with it though because the thing is, he’s always been a little suicidal. It’s a prerequisite for the profession, he might say.

He’s slumped over his desk, staring blearily at the reports on Fischer Morrow’s mergers and acquisitions, when he suddenly becomes aware of the silence. Looking up, he finds no trace of Cobb, Yusuf, or Ariadne. Eames, the lazy ass, is splayed across the sofa, the only plushy object in the whole goddamn warehouse, legs spread insolently and eyes closed.

Arthur stands up, fully intending to pull Eames up by the ears, but hesitates as he hovers over him and one moment of weakness is all it takes. He finds himself sprawled on the cushions next to Eames, which, factoring in the size of the sofa and the size of Eames, really means that he’s half on top of Eames and a quarter off the edge. 

His weight elicits nothing but a half-hearted grunt and a deep, indulgent inhale, close enough to his ear to induce a shiver down his spine. He shifts a little closer, only because his shoulder is cramped, and his eyelids flutter involuntarily at the feeling of muscle and warmth against his back. An arm drapes loosely over his stomach, curling a little to secure his position on the sofa. Lips press against his nape and a contented hum reverberates through his skin, making his back arch.

He knows it’s appallingly unprofessional and that Ariadne or Cobb or Yusuf or, god forbid, all three could walk in at any moment. But he’s sleep-deprived and just so blissfully comfortable that he lets his eyes close temporarily.

When he wakes, he senses a redistribution of weight, orienting himself by seeking out the object nearest to his curled fingers. His knuckles bump into Eames’s chest and he splays his hand across it, riding on its rise and fall. He hears a deliberate inhale and immediately moves his fingertips to Eames’s mouth, aware of its exact location relative to Eames’s chest. (The knowledge should alarm him; instead, he feels pleasantly resigned.) It’s a request that they prolong this indolent pause between sleeping and waking. They’ve made a hard habit of living fast and, for once, he wants to ease off the gas, let out a breath that isn’t snatched up by the wind blowing past his ears. 

Eames wraps his fingers around Arthur’s wrist and mouths the pulse there, in the same attentive way he says, _darling_. Arthur slides a leg between Eames’s thighs in response and hooks the top of his foot around Eames’s calf, vaguely wondering how he came to be shoeless. His neck is starting to stiffen and ache, but he staunchly resists the need to move, figuring that he’s suffered worse for far smaller rewards. 

A cough that sounds distinctly like Cobb disrupts the quiet. Then Arthur’s brain kicks into gear and narrows down the possibilities until it concludes that the most likely scenario is that Cobb is, in fact, in close proximity. It only takes one sudden movement for Arthur to topple off the sofa, landing unflatteringly and painfully on his ass. 

When he glares upward, Cobb is frowning, Yusuf is scratching his head, and Ariadne just looks _gleeful_. This is why he doesn’t cuddle on the sofa with Eames on the job. This is why he doesn’t cuddle, period. He knows that Eames knows that sleep deprivation, like alcohol and a well-tailored suit, makes him weak.

“I had no idea you were a cuddler, Arthur.” Ariadne, clearly enjoying herself, makes it sound like she caught him playing with Barbies or baby-talking to a plant. There goes his fucking reputation.

But Arthur isn’t flustered. Arthur doesn’t do flustered. He’s only a little unbalanced when he rises up, gives his waistcoat a single efficient tug, and returns to his desk. Eames, meanwhile, looks predictably self-satisfied, still stretched out across the sofa, watching Arthur with dark, devious intent.

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you, Ariadne. As anyone sensible will tell you, Arthur is very good at turning the tables.” Eames swings his feet to the ground and sits up, pulling his poker chip out of his pocket and then resting his elbows on his knees. He flicks the chip into the air and catches it between two fingers.

Arthur lets Eames speak for him only because he can still feel the deceleration, and the lull of his body as Eames’s breaths drew him into sleep.


End file.
